


Family Rules

by incogneat_oh



Series: That One Hug Meme [5]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fill, hug meme, mentions of injury, tail end/aftermath of a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 10:23:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11079636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Hurt/comfort for thehug meme.





	Family Rules

Dick’s restless, hovering in Damian’s bedroom. It’s so difficult to read the youngest Wayne, and most attempts to connect with him get, at best, a brush off. At worst, stitches.

But he hasn’t seen the kid in almost a week, and Bruce said it’d been a rough night. He figured he’d wait around until Damian was ready for bed, then maybe have a quick catch-up with him. Find out how everything’s going, maybe annoy him until he forgets the stress of the night. 

 

But now Dick’s been waiting outside the bathroom door for– thirteen minutes. The shower is still running, but Damian’s usually five minutes, six tops.

So, cringing preemptively, Dick knocks on the bathroom door twice, calls, “Hey, Dami– you close to done in there?”

And hears… nothing. No tongue clicking, no muttered cursing. Nothing like the sound of the shower shutting off. 

Much more cautious, then, ear flat against the door, he says; “Damian? You okay?” There’s an edge of worry, now, hand already on the doorknob.

Then, “Last warning, kiddo– I’m coming in, alright?”

And. The door isn’t locked. Which is nothing if not a warning sign. 

The bathroom’s fogged up, air thick with steam. The fan’s running, and there’s a pair of sweats balled up by the mat. The mask, Robin’s domino, is on the counter by the sink. The kid’s still standing, which is probably a good sign. There’s the silhouette of him behind the shower screen, where the water’s still running full-blast.

A less good sign is that he hasn’t moved at all. Not even to acknowledge Dick’s presence. He just stands there, facing the tiled-wall, half-under the spray. Hands clenched. 

Dick can’t see his face.

He just says, “Hey, Dami. You wanna take a couple deep breaths for me?” And he takes a clean towel off the rack, plush and luxurious and ludicrously oversized for the ten year old. He pulls back the shower screen, talking absently as he does – “I have it on good authority you had a pretty crappy night. I wanted to drop by and say hello” – and with one hand he reaches past Damian to turn off the water, the other lifting the towel. He carefully bundles Damian in it, wrapping it loosely around the kid’s shoulders.

He still doesn’t speak.

Dick touches his shoulder then, very gently, very carefully, to gauge a reaction. Then he turns Damian around to face him, urging him a little closer. His eyes are blank and very blue.

Easing him over the shower edge and onto the mat, Dick says, “If you didn’t know, lil D, we have a couple rules about what you’re supposed to do if ever you have a night like this. You really shouldn’t be alone.” 

Damian just stands there, shivering faintly under the towel. Staring straight ahead, mouth small and slack. His hair is plastered down, his skin damp from the shower and steam. 

“When I was a little younger than you are,” Dick says absently, conversationally, “I’d had a bad night, and I really didn’t know what to say to B. So I went upstairs alone to have a shower, got dizzy, and split my damn head open on the tile.” Here he touches a small, faint scar on his forehead, says ruefully, “14 stitches. Bled like crazy, the whole bathroom looked like a crime scene. I think I gave Dad a miniature heart-attack when he found me.”

Dick herds Damian over to the toilet, and puts the lid down. Manually sits him down. “You aren’t going to fall, right–?” And he crouches down to Damian’s eye-level and says, “Does Alfred still keep clean jammies in the top drawer?”

For the first time, Damian’s eyes seem to find his face. Still disturbingly blank, he stares almost  _through_ Dick. But it’s still a good sign. And then, of his own power, Damian’s hands tighten on the edges of his towel. 

Dick smiles gently, says “I’m sure I’ll find them. I’ll be just a second, okay? You can stay put.”

And it turns out Alfred  _does_ still keep clean pyjamas in the top drawer of the dresser (he picks out the monster ones, the ones that Damian had made a show of rolling his eyes about but clearly loved), and digs out a pair of briefs, too.

Then he returns to the bathroom, where the steam’s starting to clear.

Damian’s still sitting stooped over, but there seems to be a touch more colour to his face. And Dick crouches back down, holding out the pyjamas. He says, “You think you can manage with these? I’ll help if you want, but I don’t  _super_ feel like getting punched in the face, so it’s your call.”

And Damian’s blue eyes travel up again to meet his gaze. His eyebrows wrinkle slightly, mouth settling on something closer to his usual frown. So Dick says, “I’ll turn around. But lean on me if you have to, okay?”

He stands, true to his word, and hears the very slow shuffle of fabric behind him. Feels a faint press of a hand at the small of his back for balance. And eventually, after several long minutes, Damian’s done. 

When Dick turns back, he still doesn’t look well, but he looks more like his usual self. More aware, at least. And Dick says, “You good?”

Damian hesitates. Nods once, jerkily. 

“Let’s go sit down for a bit,” Dick suggests. He puts a hand on Damian’s back between his shoulder blades, half-guiding, half-steering him out into the bedroom. 

Damian shrugs off his hand and takes the last few steps to the bed alone. He makes it to the edge of his enormous bed before he sinks down, exhaustion in every line of his body. 

Dick sits beside him. After a moment, he says, “Do you want me to go get Dad or Alfred?”

Damian exhales like a sigh. And he says, voice hoarse, “No.”

“Okay.” And there’s a carefully measured line of space between them on the bed, but Dick says, “Are you gonna freak out if I give you a hug? … more than usual, I mean.”

The boy closes his eyes, turns his head to the side. Then he leans, carefully, into Dick. 

He lets out a small sigh, relieved, and finally wraps his arms around the kid. He feels warm and solid and a little shaky, his usually spiked-up hair soft and damp. He can feel the wet through his shirt.

“Pretty scary, huh,” he says, and instantly, Damian says,

“I wasn’t afraid.”

“Then you’re a lot braver than I am,” Dick says, mildly. And then, keeping his voice casual, he says, “That ever happened before?”

He feels the little body stiffen in his arms, while Damian thinks about lying. But he eventually says, “Once.”

Dick squeezes, feeling Damian slowly relax again. “Was it… when you were my Robin?”

He’s not really expecting a response, but after a moment, Damian nods against his side. Murmurs, “When Mother… it was. When I last saw her.”  _When she disowned me_  goes unspoken, but the words are loud in the air around them.

Dick just rubs a hand gently up Damian’s back. He’s boneless now, exhausted. His eyes are half-closed, one hand fisted in the fabric of Dick’s shirt. 

“You aren’t alone,” he murmurs, to the boy in his arms.

And Damian nods again, slowly. He halfway sits up then, still propped against Dick. He reaches up, frown heavy on his face, and– traces the scar on Dick’s forehead. 

“14 stitches,” he mumbles, and Dick nods, pressing a sneaky kiss to his temple.

_You aren’t alone._

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/74897235552/1-damian-and-dick)


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